


When Gravity Fails

by Finely Honed (jaqen_hgar)



Series: дезинформация [17]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Bruce Is a Good Bro, Dreams vs. Reality, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Manipulation, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Father-Son Relationship, Howard Stark's Bad Parenting, Jarvis Feels, M/M, Parent-Child Relationship, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Self-Esteem Issues, Self-Worth Issues, Tony Feels, Tony Stark Needs a Hug
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-26
Updated: 2014-10-26
Packaged: 2018-02-22 18:44:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,260
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2517935
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jaqen_hgar/pseuds/Finely%20Honed
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Despite his shitty track record, there were some relationships Tony Stark figured he could count on no matter what, the one he had with gravity being somewhere near the top of the list.</p>
<p>Takes place between <em>Pepper</em> and <em>Pledging My Time</em>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	When Gravity Fails

Despite his shitty track record, there were some relationships Tony Stark figured he could count on no matter what, the one he had with gravity being somewhere near the top of the list.

“Serves you right,” he mutters to himself, worrying at his lower lip with his teeth, eyes wide as he drinks in the details of the alien ships. He’d like to think someday he’ll learn his lesson, stop counting on things in general, but considering he’s about to die alone in space, it’s sort of a moot point.

He’s pretty good at imagining things, but can’t quite get his mind to wrap itself around the idea of this being the way it ends. It’s grasping desperately at snatches of pop culture nonsense while the panic slowly creeps in around the edges. Snippets of _2001: A Space Odyssey_ , the awfulness that was Aerosmith’s “I Don’t Want To Miss A Thing,” because that’s easier than thinking of Pepper.

He’s never going to see her again, and at the moment he sort of, kind of _hates_ her a little for not having answered the phone. Hates that he’s feeling that way. His last thoughts of her should be loving ones, happy reflections on their time together, but none of that flashes before his eyes, not a bit of it.

In fact, the only thing flashing before his eyes is the warhead rather dramatically finding its way to the intended target. 

Falling isn’t quite falling when gravity fails you. He can’t really tell that he’s moving, what with the pain creeping in as the arc reactor takes a cue from gravity, and gives up on him too. He _thinks_ he’s drifting back to Earth, though he’s not sure what good it’ll do him considering the suit is dead and he’s about ten seconds away from blacking out.

It’s probably a sign of how fucked up Tony is that his last conscious thought isn’t of not having been able to say goodbye to Pepper, but is of Captain America. He sees the ( _beautiful_ ) stupid face of his childhood hero, the man who had graced the posters in his bedroom, only his eyes are filled with ( _all too familiar_ ) disappointment, disapproval, disgust.

_“You better stop pretending to be a hero.”_

“How’s _that_ for pretending?” Tony asks no one at all.

And then he closes his eyes.

 

 

 

_Blackness._

 

 

 

_“How did you get out of the wormhole?”_

 

 

 

 

Tony opens his mouth to answer, even as the room shrinks and grows around him, as sound fluctuates, and his heart, and his head, and everything goes haywire, He needs to get to the suit, get _into_ the suit, because…

“Because you know you _didn’t_.” 

There is a little boy that still lives on somewhere inside of Tony’s brain, in his heart, one that thrills just at hearing his father’s voice again, even if the words turn his blood to ice, and leave him shaking.

“I can’t believe you,” Howard says, and Tony squeezes his eyes shut even tighter than before. “Oh for the love of… Open your eyes, boy!”

So, of course he _does_.

And this isn’t right, it isn’t _fair_ , and…

“Hi, dad.”

Howard Stark, as always, looks larger than life, and Tony finds he’s not lost in the vastness of space anymore, he’s not having a panic attack over some kid asking him a question he can’t answer. He isn’t in the suit, or his bed—he’s back in his father’s study.

The smell is what gets him, the smell of the books, and the leather of the chair he’s sitting in, Howard’s cologne, and most of all the ( _awful, familiar, wonderful, missed_ ) aroma of the drink his father pours him after topping off his own.

It’s the sounds, too, the ice rattling around in the glass, his own ragged, erratic breathing, Howard’s ( _familiar_ ) sigh of resigned disappointment.

“Do you have any idea how _embarrassing_ it’s been for me, watching you?”

Tony flinches, his fingers tightening around the glass. Usually, when his dad is in this kind of mood, it’s best to stay quiet. 

“Hey, well, your golden boy is back, so go haunt Steve Rogers if you’re looking for the warm and fuzzies.”

Howard laughs at this, almost a snorting giggle. It’s obvious he’s been drinking for awhile. The sound makes Tony’s skin crawl, all the little hairs on the back of his neck standing on end. It’s a special sort of laugh, the, “I know something you don’t know,” laugh.

“What part of this do you _not_ comprehend?” Howard asked, the ice rattling loudly as he knocked back the single-malt bourbon. “You’re dead, idiot, you never made it out of the wormhole.”

And just like that, Tony feels the foundations shake, feels everything give out from under him, because really, hasn’t he always ( _nestled deep, something black and insidious and unshakeable_ ) had a sneaking suspicion that this was the case?

“Oh.”

Really, though it makes sense. It makes more sense than him living in a superhero frat house in New York. Makes more sense than James loving him, which has always felt too good to be true. While he’s at it, Captain America claiming him as one of his best friends has always sounded like the punchline to a joke he can’t quite remember the rest of.

He can’t feel his limbs, isn’t really aware of moving until the bourbon is sloshing past his lips, is burning its way down his throat, leaving his eyes watering. They’re _not_ tears, they _can’t_ be. After all, what’s the point of crying when you’re already dead?

“Finally sinking in, is it?”

It’s the “keep up, boy” tone of voice, and yeah, part of him has missed this, too, because he’s pathetic like that.

“So, what, this is the afterlife or something?” Tony uses his drink to gesture around the room, trying for flippant, but falling far short. “No offense, but a tearful father-son reunion feels a bit cliche, not to mention out of character.”

Howard just glares at him over the rim of his glass, and Tony fidgets, feeling all of about seven years old. Maybe if he’s really lucky his father will send him off to boarding school all over again.

“If you think I’m happy to see you, think again.”

Tony laughs at this, his jaw working, muscle in his cheek twitching. “Right, so, not much has changed, then.”

“It’s that attitude of yours that landed you in this mess in the first place,” Howard snaps, hand slamming down against the top of his desk. Everything in the room jumps, Tony included, and he takes another drink if only to have something to do with his hand, and his mouth. “Am I supposed to be happy you went and got yourself killed?”

That actually gets him, a strange hopeful fluttering sensation in his stomach as his eyes go wide and his mouth opens to reply, but before he can say anything, his father adds, “All those women, and not a single heir to the Stark name. Who carries on my work now, Tony?”

And just like that, he’s laughing, because of course. _Of fucking course_.

“Guess your greatest creation was a bust.”

He’s laughing, but he wants to cry. It’s surreal, it’s like they’ve had this conversation before, and part of him is thinking about when he was thirteen, while simultaneously trying desperately _not_ to, but mostly he wishes he could stand up, just walk out of the room, run, just _get away_. 

He can’t, though, he can’t seem to move anything except the arm with the glass, can’t seem to do more than lift it back to his lips, tip out the contents until the ice cubes knock against his teeth.

Howard is right there, right in front of him, and the glass is filled and drained, filled and drained, until it feels like an eternity has passed, and eternity comprised of Tony squirming under his father’s disapproving gaze, the burning taste of alcohol on his tongue.

It feels more real to him than anything has since he woke up to find he’d been hooked up to a car battery in a cave in Afghanistan.

“I gave you everything,” Howard is saying, and Tony feels like he’s drowning, can only stare at his hand where its wrapped around the glass while he tries not to throw up. “Every opportunity. I trusted you with the _future_ , and what did you do? You _squandered_ it.”

The problem is, Tony can’t bring himself to argue. “Yes, sir.”

Howard is talking—berating him really—but this has become a distant sort of familiar angry buzzing sound, an undercurrent being drowned out by the cacophony of his heart pounding in his ears, by the pain in his chest as his lungs struggle, because he can’t seem to catch his breath, and he wants to scream, or cry, but mostly he wants James.

As if reading his mind, Howard grabs Tony’s face, forcing his head up so he’ll make eye contact, and Tony already knows what’s coming, so it’s no surprise when Howard says, “Don’t think it’s escaped my notice that the little afterlife fantasy you’ve constructed for yourself centers around you regularly _servicing_ the man responsible for my death. For your _mother’s_ death, Tony!”

He tries to look away, but just like the first time he and his father had the “acceptable behavior for a Stark man” conversation, Howard tightens his grip on Tony’s face, squeezing hard enough to make him wince. “That’s how you show loyalty, how you repay us for everything we gave you?”

“You don’t get to talk about him,” and Tony is proud of the determination he hears in his voice, even if he does sound more than a little shattered.

“About your _imaginary_ , vulgar relationship?” 

Howard sneers at him, and Tony wishes it wasn’t so familiar, wishes he wasn’t happy just to have his father’s attention. Sure, it’d be nice to see approval in his eyes instead of disappointment, but things have never really worked that way between the two of them. Not much point in changing it up now.

He blinks, and then they’re not in the study anymore, they’re in his home, the one in Malibu, only its still in one piece. The panic has returned in full force now, because he’s back on the couch, paralyzed, betrayed by his own body, and he doesn’t want to be _here_ , doesn’t want to live this again.

Only, it’s even worse, because this time it isn’t Obadiah standing above him, it’s his father. The look in his eyes is the same as Stane’s had been. The same as Captain America’s. It’s _always_ the same… 

“What kind of world would it be today if I was as selfish as you?” Howard asks, and Tony can only gasp as the arc reactor is ripped out of his chest. “The only thing you care about is yourself.”

Tony can feel the tears on his face, but can’t do anything about them, can only wonder why people keep saying things like this to him. He’s pretty sure it’s rather painfully obvious that he’s the person he cares about the _least_. Always has been.

It feels like gravity is failing him all over again, darkness creeping back in at the edges, until all he can see is his father’s eyes. He thinks of James again, summons a mental image of his smile, tries to hold onto it.

“I should have known,” and Howard’s voice sounds far away now, “once a sissy, always a sissy. Go back to your little fantasy, then, boy. I’m done wasting my time on you.”

 

 

 

_Blackness._

 

 

 

“Sir? Sir, are you alright?”

“Shut up,” Tony snapped, blinking through the tears, trying to get his breathing back under control. He didn’t remember getting out of the bed, but must have done so, because he was at the bar, one hand pressed against the arc reactor, the other wrapped around an unopened bottle of scotch.

“Shall I call Master Barnes for you?”

Tony let go of the reactor long enough to get the top off of the bottle, then took a sip as his hand settled back against his chest, the metal comfortingly solid beneath his hands. The burn of the scotch was wonderful, and horrible, and left him clenching his jaw.

“You seem to be experiencing…”

“I said _shut up_!” Tony shouted, his grip tightening around the neck of the bottle. “Shut up, shut the _fuck_ up. I swear, JARVIS, if I hear one more word from you I’ll lose it, okay?”

He could _feel_ the silence though, feel JARVIS watching him in a way that he’d normally classify as comforting. Right then it felt oppressive, and judgemental, and his skin was crawling, so why not have a drink, try to push it all away?

Two broken glasses later, he gave up on pouring anything out. It wasn’t the first time he’d found himself drinking straight from a bottle because of how badly his hands were shaking. Probably wouldn’t be the last, either.

Tony felt trapped inside a feedback loop, thoughts racing, circling around and around on each other, returning again and again to his father’s eyes, to his words, to the wormhole, and the neverending glass of bourbon, and all of the ways he’d failed to live up to his name.

He continued to work his way through the bottle until everything began to feel too much like his dream ( _was it a dream?_ ), and he felt compelled to throw it across the room, watch as it smashed against the windows, the booze momentarily obscuring his view of the outside world, and wasn’t _that_ just poetic?

Tony swallowed a sob, and abandoned his suite, not really sure what he was doing or where he was going until he found himself standing outside of Bruce’s door, banging away like a maniac.

Bruce looked understandably concerned when he opened the door, but not necessarily surprised, and Tony wondered if JARVIS had given him a heads up once he realized where Tony was headed.

“Question,” Tony pushed his way into the room, ignoring Bruce’s little sound of protest, “how do I know what I’m experiencing is reality?”

He spun on his heels just in time to watch as Bruce closed the door and pinched the bridge of his nose. “You’ve been drinking.”

“Ouch, okay, not the answer I expected.” The scotch was hitting his system hard now, finally catching up with him, and despite feeling gutted, a giggle escaped. “Might be a valid qualifier, though, gotta give you points for that, Brucie Bear.”

Bruce was good at staying calm, but Tony could see right through it, could see the careful control in his movements as he headed for his kitchen, keeping his voice casual as he said, “I think I’m going to need tea for whatever this is.”

“Probably, yeah.”

Tony followed him, his hand constantly returning to the arc reactor despite his best attempts to keep it at his side. Even though he promised himself he’d wait until he had a warm cup of something in his hands before he started up, he couldn’t. The words felt pressurized inside of him.

“So, right, reality, kind of questioning mine right now. I either had a top notch dream, or an epiphany, and gotta say, I’m sort of on the fence with this one. Course, that might be the scotch talking. Or the crippling fear and self loathing. Whatever, one of those.”

It was strange how Bruce’s sighs never set Tony on edge, never left him feeling the way most people’s sighs did. For a moment, he forgot why he was there, distracted by the way Bruce was almost curled in on himself, and the tightness around his eyes.

Slowly, his brain put two and two together, and it left him feeling like ( _even more of_ ) a colossal asshole. He wasn’t the only one in the Tower with daddy issues. In fact, considering how his own childhood had gone, Bruce was probably the last person who should be subjected to a poor little rich boy Tony Stark pity party. Not getting hugs growing up would have seemed like paradise compared to Bruce’s encounters with his own alcoholic father.

“ _Fuck_. Hey, I’m sorry, I should go,” he caught himself as he reached out to touch Bruce’s arm, yanked his hand back before he could make contact.

“Tony,” and Bruce didn’t pull away, just grabbed him by the wrist and held on, keeping him right where he was.

They stood like that, watching the flame under the kettle, Bruce’s fingers tight around Tony’s wrist, until he was crying, couldn’t help it, breath hitching in his chest as a little sob escaped.

“Seriously, I’m a fuck up,” he said, “you shouldn’t have to deal with this.”

Bruce took a deep breath, faced him, and had the audacity to smile. “I’ve seen you drunk before, Tony.”

“That’s just proof that I’m an awful friend,” Tony pointed out.

“Pretty sure I’m the only one who gets to decide if you’re an awful friend, which you’re not.” Bruce studied him for a moment before asking, “Your father has something to do with this, doesn’t he?”

Tony swallowed, nodded, shrugged a shoulder. “Hey, did I ever tell you about how happy he _wasn’t_ when he found out my number one pastime at boarding school was sucking dick?”

Bruce sighed again, a sad, sympathetic little noise, his fingers tightening around Tony’s wrist. “Was that what you dreamt about?”

“Not really. Sort of.” Between the tears and the booze, the room had taken on a sort of soft, hazy aspect. “It was related, I guess. Back then I got this big speech about what it meant to be a Stark, about responsibility, and how ashamed of me he was.”

“Tony.”

“So, there’s me at thirteen having sex with this prostitute,” Tony rambled on, just wanting to get through the confession, because he felt like Bruce needed the context. “High class, mind you, maybe ten years older than me, all curves, and all on dear old dad’s dime. Guess I should just be happy he didn’t insist on actually being in the room when it happened.”

It wasn’t like it had been _awful_ , exactly. She’d been nice, really, had talked to him, tried to make him comfortable. They’d passed a joint back and forth until they were both a little giggly and relaxed, and by the time she was helping him out of his clothes, it had almost felt normal.

He’d been dumped off at boarding school when everything was said and done, and they’d never talked about it again, mostly because Tony made sure only one half of his sexual exploits found their way back to his father through the rumor mill.

“In case you’re looking for some sort of, ah, relevance in all that—surprise—it circles back to having let the old man down yet again. The Stark legacy dies when I do, and that could be as soon as tomorrow, if I’m not dead already, which is still up for debate, by the way,” Tony rambled.

“Ah, so we’re talking afterlife, as opposed to being trapped within a man-made virtual reality.” Bruce nodded to himself, removing the kettle from the flame just as it approached boiling. “When is it you think you died?”

“Have I told you lately that I love you?” Tony asked, entirely serious. “The curiosity, really digging on it right now, just what I needed. It’s the wormhole, never made it back out. Shit was already crazy before that, but in a believable sort of way, you know?”

Bruce nodded, “Right, because building your very own suit of flying armor out of scraps in a cave is the height of believability.”

“Hey, those were Stark Industries _scraps_ , thank you very much.”

“Tony, come on, are you seriously telling me you’re questioning whether or not you’re _alive_?”

Tony tugged, pulling out of the hold Bruce had on him in order to fold his arms across his chest. “I take it back, I don’t love you at all.”

The room tilted a little, and he squeezed his eyes shut, running a hand over his face as if it could push away his thoughts. Stupidly, he wanted to call James, had the feeling just hearing his voice would help all of this make sense, but the _last_ thing he wanted to do was call James, because then he’d know…

“Here, take this,” and Bruce pushed a mug of tea across the counter. 

It felt like an apology, and since he wasn’t really in a position to be a dick—he _had_ forced his way into Bruce’s place at some ungodly hour, after all—Tony accepted, snatched up the mug and allowed Bruce to guide him back into the living room.

“Okay, so walk me through this,” Bruce was using the tone of voice he did whenever they hit a wall while working, and it instantly put Tony at ease. Bruce was taking him seriously, was going to help him.

“Simple, really,” Tony explained, focusing on the discomfort in his hands, but refusing to set down the too hot mug of tea. “Dad and I just did some catching up. Apparently I’ve managed to be disappointing even _after_ dying, which, c’mon, isn’t that an achievement in and of itself?”

Bruce watched him intently, eventually chiming in once he realized Tony was done talking. “The disappointment being that you don’t have an heir?”

“Well, I squandered his gifts, for a start. Too busy worrying about myself. Drinking, partying, and whoring instead of changing the world for the better. Plus, I’m fucking the man who killed my parents. Although, I guess that’s a postmortem disappointment? Not having made another human to carry on the Stark legacy counts across the board, though,” he blew on his tea, took a sip, but it just burned his tongue and he had to spit it back into the mug. 

Bruce made a little face over this maneuver, his head tilting to the side, and it was just so _Bruce_ that Tony felt himself relaxing even further. “So if you’re dead, then what does that make me? Did I also die?”

“No, you’re just me, I guess, a part of my subconscious. Or, hey, maybe an extrapolation of some sort.”

“Wait, is the idea here that _something_ has constructed a heaven, for lack of a better term, tailored specifically to what would make you happy?” Bruce was making that face, the “you’re reaching” face.

“Well, yeah, _ish_.” Tony forced himself to drink the tea, was happy to have the distraction of pain as he struggled to swallow it. “Dad definitely made it sound like it was my choice, somehow, like it had been built to my spec once I died.”

This earned him the Curious Bruce face, his eyebrows raising as he nodded, and leaned back in his seat. “So, if that’s the case, why aren’t you with Steve?”

Tony’s hands began to shake again, and he had no choice but to put down the mug, sloshing some of the hot liquid onto his fingers in the process. “What are you…”

“Tony, at the time you went into the wormhole, you already had a whole mess of feelings about Steve,” Bruce pointed out, and he was right, of course, it was just that…

Well. Somehow, he’d _forgotten_. Or maybe not some _how_ so much as some _one_.

“If you were going to construct the perfect afterlife as a reward for yourself, at that time, it would have involved you and Steve.”

“Touche.”

“And what does it matter, anyway?” Bruce continued on, tilting his head a bit.

“What does it…? Seriously? You’re telling me life and death doesn’t matter?”

Bruce shook his head, smiling patiently. “I _am_ being serious. Let’s say you’re actually dead, and everything you’ve experienced since the wormhole has been part of some elaborate fabrication.”

Tony waited, but Bruce apparently wanted him to pick up the idea and roll with it. He tried to swallow back his anger, but his jaw was still clenched, the room spinning dangerously around him, and it was hard to focus. 

Mostly, he was remembering he’d forgotten to eat, and that he’d promised James he _would_. He was bad at promises, bad at everything.

Bruce made a, “Well?” gesture with his hands.

“Then it’s all bullshit!” Tony finally shouted, throwing his arms up in the air. “None of it is _real_.”

It’d mean _James_ wasn’t real, and even probing around the edges of that idea left him wanting to curl up in a ball.

“Sure, you could think of it that way, but to what purpose? According to you, you’re already dead, and living in a reality designed specifically to make you happy, for reasons I still don’t understand. But if that’s the case, what does it matter if it’s been constructed? There’s no exit, nothing to return to. Sounds like your only logical choice in that particular scenario is to just go with it. Enjoy yourself.”

Tony gaped at him, a strangled little noise of frustration escaping, but Bruce just shrugged and gave him a “tough luck” sort of smile.

“ _Or_ ,” he continued, “we stick with Occam’s razor, which would lead me to posit that you’re alive, but happen to be having a really shitty night.”

“Huh.”

That did sound a _bit_ more reasonable. Tony scrubbed a hand over his face again, trying to push aside the fogginess, but it was hard. He was tired, and emotionally exhausted, and drunk, ashamed, guilty, and…

“Either way, you have to ask yourself; what it is you want out of your life, Tony?”

“James,” he answered, because it was the truth. None of the rest of it mattered, really, just James Buchanan Barnes, every last little bit of him, _especially_ the way he made Tony feel.

“So let’s call James,” Bruce suggested, and Tony wanted to cry all over again.

“Nope, no can do, he’s on a mission, could be dangerous.”

“Tony…”

“I _can’t_ , not like this.” He groaned, and tried to swallow past the lump in his throat. “I’m drunk, I’m an alcoholic piece of shit. I wasn’t going to do this anymore, but I fucked up, Bruce, I’m always fucking everything up.”

He didn’t even hear Bruce get up, so it was a bit of a shock to find himself being pulled into a hug.

“Hey, you just had a bad day. Happens to all of us. You didn’t even destroy part of a city like some of us tend to do on our bad days. It’ll be okay, Tony, you’ll see.”

Bruce was good at the hugging thing, and Tony opened his mouth to tell him so, but instead he heard himself asking, “What if he dies? I… _fuck_ , I tried to call Pepper, did you know that? Before, well, _during_ , really, but she didn’t even answer the phone, Bruce!”

“I know,” which he thought was a stupid thing for Bruce to say, until Tony remembered  that phone call had come up during the _last_ time he’d been drunk, and crying all over his friend. Bruce had been forced to take the brunt of the fallout when Pepper had left him.

“What if he needs me, and I can’t get to him in time? What if I have to _watch_ it happen, and can’t do anything to stop it, and… and don’t get to say goodbye to him? I can’t...”

“Shh,” and because it was Bruce rocking him, and rubbing circles against his back, Tony quieted, biting into his lower lip as hard as possible in order to keep from saying anything else. He’d have to crawl right back into the bottle if he continued along that particular train of thought, and trains were _also_ bad to think of, considering James’s history with them. 

“Don’t worry, he’s practically indestructible,” Bruce said softly, “you’ll definitely die before he does.”

“Wow, what’s more fucked up; you saying that to make me feel better, or me _actually_ being comforted by it?”

“Let’s call it a tie.”

Tony sniffled. “Sorry. I’m pretty sure I got snot on your shirt.”

“I have other shirts.”

Bruce let go, but not all the way. He kept an arm around Tony’s shoulders, and they sat slumped together on the couch, while Tony tried to match his breathing to Bruce’s slow and steady pace.

“I don’t want a kid.”

“So don’t have a kid.”

Tony nodded to himself. “Dad was right about the legacy, though. It’d be nice to know things will keep on after I’m gone. There’s JARVIS, but… I was thinking of Parker, you know? Maybe he could be my protégé. I know, that sounds weird, and a little dirty, but I mean it in a totally non pervy way.”

Bruce chuckled, gave his shoulders a squeeze. “Not a bad idea.”

“I need to change my will.” Tony yawned rather spectacularly. “Don’t be mad if you get more than you bargained for.”

“That should be the title of my autobiography,” Bruce pointed out, and Tony laughed at that, high and startled, and a little hysterical. And because Bruce was smart, and knew him too well, he added, “He’s not going to judge you for this, or leave you, Tony. He loves you.”

“Yeah, but if I have to see _that_ look in his eyes, it’ll kill me. He could even stay, after, but I’d never forget seeing it there.” Tony swallowed past the lump in his throat. “My father, Obie, Cap. Even Pepper and Rhodey, once or twice. It’s not the disappointment so much as the disgust, Bruce.”

“James won’t _ever_ look at you like that,” and Bruce sounded so sure. Tony wished he could be sure. “Promise me you’ll talk to him?”

“Yeah, soon,” Tony answered softly. His eyes were heavy, as were his limbs, and he was just so _exhausted_. “I will, I promise. Promise me you’ll help him, when I do die?”

Bruce squeezed him again, and when he answered, he sounded sad, confusingly sad. “I promise. We’ll help each other. All of us will, Tony, because we’re family. That’s what we _all_ are to each other now, and you’re a part of that, too. A big part.”

Tony heard him, but the words didn’t quite sink in; it was a bit too hard to accept.

“Come on, lie down.”

As he let himself be repositioned on Bruce’s couch, Tony wondered how many times in his life someone had put him to bed drunk. Sadly, he was pretty sure that the times he’d simply passed out somewhere with no one giving two shits about whether or not he woke up again was a much, much higher number.

“Here, drink this,” Bruce ordered, and Tony obliged, emptying the glass of water before flopping back down on the couch. He closed his eyes as Bruce added, “Wake me up if you need me.”

A blanket was draped over him, and a hand gently stroked the top of his head, but then it was quiet, and he was alone with his muddy thoughts, sleep slowly dragging him under.

“Hey, JARVIS,” he whispered, “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have yelled at you, not like that.”

“You have nothing to apologize for,” JARVIS answered. “Sleep now, sir. I’ll watch over you.”

Tony struggled to get the words out before he drifted off into the blackness. He felt they were important to say. Important to hear.

"Daddy loves you, J," he said, and then closed his eyes.

**Author's Note:**

> This one came from an actual dream I had of Tony having a nightmare, because my brain loves me. Not sure if I quite captured it, but we can only do our best. Tony needs some hugs... I think the next one needs to be him and James snuggling, or something, because my feels hurt a bit.


End file.
